Go Home Part 3 Missing Conversation before the final scene in HLV
by Wynsom
Summary: Go Home Part 3 Missing conversation from HLV between John and Sherlock During Sherlock's incarceration, Mycroft, John, and Sherlock shared hopes,regrets, and heal wounds of misunderstanding. The context of John's and Sherlock's exchange offers a basis for their albeit very restrained final meeting at the air base.


**Go Home **

**Part 3 ****Missing conversation from HLV between John and Sherlock**

**During Sherlock's incarceration, John and Sherlock shared hopes and regrets, giving substance to their restrained final meeting at the air base. **

"I need to see him!" John Watson was boiling mad. Sherlock was still incarcerated for murdering Charles Augustus Magnussen, and Mycroft had been inaccessible far too long.

"Where's Anthea? Where's Mycroft?" John planted a heavy fist down on the desk where the male aide sat stoically. "It's been nearly 24 hours!" John took pleasure in seeing him flinch.

"_Enough_ of this!"

John pivoted. Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother and professed protector, had entered the office flanked by several parliamentary officials. The powerful man used his fluid voice, like water, to douse the flames of John's anger.

"Stop menacing my aide, John? Don't you think I had more important matters than keeping you informed on developments?" With a slight nod of his head, Mycroft dismissed his companions. "Gentlemen."

They dispersed, eyes averted, John noted with a sinking feeling.

"Follow me, Dr. Watson."

Smoothly his aide opened the office door, letting Mycroft sail through, but shut it just a little too abruptly behind John.

_Payback for my rudeness, _John registered without dispute.

Mycroft's office was meticulous and unchanged, as if real work were never done within, so that nothing might soil or disturb the grander of these halls of government. In the past John had been impressed with the magnificent splendor of Mycroft's inner sanctum, but the interior seemed ominously dark on this late December evening. Just a few days prior, they were celebrating Christmas together, Mycroft loudly mewing like a cranky cat in protest about spending time in the parental Holmes' homestead.

"_Merry Christmas__!"_

John closed his eyes with a shiver. The echo of Sherlock's voice that fateful moment before he pulled the trigger played endlessly. Did his brilliant Sherlock fail to anticipate the dire consequences of so mindless an act—cold-blooded murder—witnessed by forces in circling helicopters? What was he thinking?

"What _indeed _was he thinking?" Mycroft spoke aloud as though he could read John's thoughts, an uncanny talent both Holmes brothers seemingly possessed. "That is the problem. I am afraid that my _little_ brother was not thinking clearly. I warned him about emotional commitment and its dangers. _Poor_ Sherlock! He probably thought he could handle it. Instead, human error has reared its ugly head. I blame you."

Mycroft spoke offhandedly but with deliberate intent. He wanted to evoke pain or at least lay guilt elsewhere. With smug satisfaction, he observed in John's expression the reaction he desired. Threads of human sentiments: affection, fear, regret, compassion, grief, and guilt wove like an elaborate tapestry across the man's features, but unexpectedly Mycroft sensed them become colored by rage.

"You can stop demeaning him with 'little'." John growled, furiously pacing in tight circles as Mycroft sat in his desk chair. "Regardless of his motives, what are you doing about it? He took on this case at the request of Lady Smallwood. Is there any humane consideration being attached to the incident? Where's Sherlock now?"

Abruptly, John halted. "I need to see him." It was a request.

Ever since their first encounter, Mycroft had been amazed by, and if he cared to admit, jealous of, this accidental friendship of antisocial Sherlock: John Watson. Who was he? All records indicated that the ex-army doctor was really an ordinary man, obviously self-made to some degree, not born into powerful connections that opened gilded doors to aristocracy, corporate magnates, or seats of power. Yet, despite his common pedigree, or perhaps because of it, the former soldier had established a sterling record as a man of great character, fierce determination, unswerving loyalty, high principles, and genuine compassion, all qualities that commanded respect wherever he went. His allegiance could not be bought, it had to be earned; for some mysterious reason, Sherlock had won this prize.

And doors opened to him, even Mycroft's.

"I need to see him."

"I heard you the first time."

John stood silently at attention, his eyes trained on Mycroft with a steadfast focus that put a shamed flush on Mycroft's cheeks and flushed out an answer no one expected to hear. "I'm sorry."

"Wwwwhhhat do yyyyou mean? You're sorry? You're sorry!" John's eyes were backlit with a violence he masterfully controlled in a quiet tone and inert body.

Mycroft cautioned himself about the explosive power standing an arm's length away, and decided it would be prudent to switch off his shield of haughtiness in the face of John's raw emotions. _Is this how John handled Sherlock? _

"As you are aware, John, vigilantism, no matter how justified, causes anarchy. It cannot be condoned and it cannot go unpunished. This sensitive case that is currently forefront in the news has caused heated debate over the spirit of the law versus the letter of the law. Because of its high profile, we cannot _just _make it go away. The great hue and cry of public opinion have vocalized genuine sympathies for Sherlock—an overwhelming majority in fact, not only on the streets of London, but also within the citadels of parliament. However, he committed an act of murder—we cannot argue otherwise—and there are no easy reparations in the justice system for this crime, even if the victim deserved to die. Civilization necessitates we abide by the law, and in the case of Magnussen's transgressions, the law would have had to decide his punishment."

"But Magnussen worked outside the law! He was an insidious blackmailer!" John protested. "He destroyed people with his enormous mind palace through manipulation, innuendo, slander, and lies and used the tools of his almighty press to wield it. He would never have been caught or convicted. People _wanted _him dead."

"Wishing one dead is not prosecutable, pulling the trigger is. Sherlock made the ultimate sacrifice that will benefit countless individuals, but his motives were not so magnanimous. Unfortunately, my dear Dr. Watson, he really did it to save you."

"I didn't ask him to..," John moaned.

"But it was something you wanted, unspoken perhaps. Since you function within restrictions of accepted morality, even as a soldier at war, you would not have committed murder. Sherlock did it for you. That is the problem. An amoral man like my ...er... brother works outside the accepted principles of right and wrong..."

"He wasn't wrong. Magnussen needed to be stopped. It didn't help that you discouraged him, which was as good as pulling the trigger yourself...You didn't have the stones to handle the matter...which mystifies me still, considering the blackmailer's network of pressure points was aimed at getting you!"

"And now my 'pressure point' is charged with murder. Yes, John, I was aware of Magnussen's designs on me." Mycroft shook his head sadly. "That man deserved to die for the irreparable harm done to our country and people."

"You agree then!"

"Of course I agree. However, that is the nature of this beast we call diplomacy; all too often it functions within the grey areas of policy. At times, we are left questioning whether amoral acts in the name of justice are truly righteous. I am not blameless of such difficult decisions made for the common good …" Mycroft grew quiet and mournful, speaking softly as if from a great distance. "In his defense, I've given my colleagues the assurance that my brother was always more essential as a scalpel, wielded with precision and without remorse, than a blunt instrument of destruction.…but this day, he has proven me wrong and put himself in harm's way." Mycroft cleared his throat. "But there were other reasons to keep Magnussen alive. It wasn't the time or the way to execute that plan."

"So what now?"

"After much deliberation with my esteemed colleagues, including the aggrieved Lady Smallwood who demonstrated the most congeniality, there are two options that have precedents: imprisonment—20 years with good behavior (which is impossible for Sherlock) or an undercover mission for his government.

John grimaced. "Does he know?"

"Upon our strong encouragement, he's accepted the mission."

John worried that Sherlock had not completely recovered from the nearly fatal gunshot wound from months ago. Would he be able to sustain the punishment of undercover assignments that would be exceedingly perilous? "For how long?"

Mycroft veiled his eyes from John. "I give him six months."

"And then what?"

Mycroft shrugged and picked up his phone. "Sherlock has a visitor... yes, now!"

As John was escorted away, he distinctly felt manipulated. Mycroft was not telling him everything.

"Sherlock!" John warmly shook his friend's hand, hiding his emotions as best he could from the guard standing watch. "Nice digs!"

"Better than Baker Street?" Sherlock queried as he cast his eyes across the chamber reserved for prestigious prisoners. Sherlock turned to the guard. "I believe I am entitled to private visits, Rogers."

Rogers conceded with the reminder. "I'll be just outside, here."

"John!" Sherlock turned once he heard the click of the lock. "It's good to see you," he admitted, trying to deflect the anguish in his friend's face.

John nodded, then impulsively hugged his friend, more desperately than either had expected before they broke free silently.

"Not good, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled wryly. "To quote Blaise Pascal: _The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of... We know the truth not only by the reason, but by the heart_.'"

John's resolve melted. "You are a conundrum! From the first, you have touted logic and rationalism as superior to the human heart, scorning sentiment whenever it was offered to you, but then you abandon everything...!"

"What I did was logical and right, John. I have no regrets for the justified demise of a man who has caused ruination to the helpless, who has toppled the righteous with shame, and who has blackened the hearts of loving folk with great despair. No! Those who are so heinous must be stopped."

"But now you're his last victim." John stated flatly. "You are ruined. In that split moment, whether it was premeditation or blind passion," John clenched his fists, reliving the moment and willing it to be different, "it was madness!"

"If my action is deemed madness, so be it. My normalcy has always been in question. I am a freak, unattached, antisocial—unquestionably a sociopath. I have always been inhuman, a lost cause. There was little to lose."

"Not to me!" John snapped pounding his chest. "Not to me. The majority of us are caught in societal constraints. We are told what to think and how to feel. After a while, we cannot distinguish the truth. We are swayed from the clarity of reason and integrity when we begin trusting the wrong people. But, not you, Sherlock! You are the rarity; the one who sees the honest, raw truth and does not fear to name it. You have set me right. Your uniqueness inspires me."

"Evolution shows that uniqueness leads to extinction." Sherlock smiled sadly. "But John, you are the blend of the best characteristics. You know how to fit in and still uphold your uniqueness. You deserve to survive."

"Survive? Is that it?" John puzzled. "DESERVE to survive? I nearly watched my best friend shot dead right before my eyes! Watching you 'die' the first time was traumatic enough—I almost didn't survive that. And now, I get to watch you be treated like a lunatic prisoner, carted off to who knows where to serve our government for however long. The only way I can survive all this is to know that you will return."

"I cannot promise you what I don't know." Something about Sherlock's vulnerability was unnerving. "Instead, John, promise me you will be happy. Your happiness with Mary and your child is the best outcome, the one I hoped to accomplish, through this fever of my madness."

"How can I be entirely happy at your expense?" John's eyes, welling with tears, looked for hope. "There's still time to play up the madness angle. Can't you say you suffered a psychotic episode, some PTSD from your recent gunshot wound and that you didn't know what you were doing? I can attest to the brainwashing we experienced as Magnussen played on our fears. You can plead for leniency, forgiveness …."

Sherlock shook his head, looking pale and forlorn, even though his clarifying eyes held their dazzling focus. "I ask forgiveness from no one—except from you—for the separation it will cost us both."

It was too much for John to hold back. Suddenly he was embracing his friend with strong arms, his voice hoarse with fury. "I promise you this. You will not regret your sacrifice." He felt in Sherlock's shoulders the genuine emotions his friend would never admit—self-imposed isolation dissolving with relief and joy in the warmth of human contact.

When they stood at a distance once more, John studied his friend's resigned face and sighed. "I am at a loss, Sherlock. I don't know what else to say to change this."

"Then, let me say thank you," slowly Sherlock extended his hand for a handshake, "for being my best friend, John Watson. The only man who laughed at my jokes."

"Got any now?" John's hand locked Sherlock's in a firm grip.

"Can't think of one…" Their clasp pumped a slow rhythm.

"Too bad." John mumbled. "I could use a one."

"I'll think of something!" Sherlock smiled warmly. "Go home now, John."

Driving home, John was alone with his thoughts. What he deduced from both conversations with the Holmes brothers was curling his stomach. "Six months…" Mycroft had said. "I cannot promise…" Sherlock had admitted. John was certain the mission was a death sentence, to send the "hero" murderer off to a different kind of justice: merciless torture and death at the hands of the underworld!

"No!" John pounded the steering wheel. "I will **have** your back, mate! I will find a way to** bring** you back. You will **NOT** fool me again with the lie you want me to believe!"

This time John had an ally—Mary. _We can trust her_, Sherlock had said. With new insights about his dark desires, John had become fully reconciled to his addiction to danger as well as to his love for his dangerous wife. Marriage to a trained assassin and undercover intelligence expert had its advantages. His Mary Watson was a survivor and with her advice—they would never jeopardize their baby—they would form and execute a meticulous plan…

John had been promised one last meeting on the air base before Sherlock would be jetted away to unknown destinations. This new Watson decided he would wisely allow appearances to stand. He would soldier up, as painful as it might be, and let them think he was "unaware" of the suicide mission. Let it seem that the "awkward" moments and fumbling "nonchalance" had to do with his helplessness in a fate he could not change. That way, they would never suspect.

It was time John Watson proved to himself that he was excellent at keeping secrets when it came to Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
